


A Hungry Mind

by spacehopper



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blood, Loss of Humanity, M/M, Self-inflicted Injuries, experimenting with powers, healing factor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-07 14:00:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17961920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehopper/pseuds/spacehopper
Summary: Jon needs to know. Even if his discoveries might destroy him.





	A Hungry Mind

The first cut was an accident. 

The statement was newer, on crisp white paper unworn by handling and age. All it had taken was one wrong movement, the slide of an edge along his finger. He’d barely even noticed, not at first. Not until he sat at his desk, held it in front of him, and saw the bright red stream flowing across the page. 

Blood. Right. It ran down the page, only a trickle, but enough to slowly cover a handful of words, before it halted at the end of a neatly typed paragraph. _Hungry._ Everything before it was gone. No, not gone. Consumed. 

He set down the statement. It hadn’t been important anyway, just something to tide him over while he looked for more. Instead he focused on his hand, bringing it to his eye. The flow had stopped, though the cut still gaped an angry red. Closer, closer, and inside nothing but flesh. Normal, human flesh. 

Why would it be anything else? 

The thought was a shot to the gut. Not enough sleep, not enough time away from this place. He fumbled a drawer open, fingers leaving bloody marks on the handle. There were plasters in his desk, part of the first aid kit Martin had insisted they all have, in the wake of Jane Prentiss’s attack. Not that a plaster would do much against a monster, not that it would hold one at bay. But it’d stop the bleeding. It had to stop the bleeding. 

As he wrapped it carefully around his finger, he realized the tape recorder had started. But then it would’ve been stranger if it hadn’t. Not for the abandoned statement, no, but for whatever this was. Simple paranoia? His dreams had been haunted more than usual, not the old nightmares, but visions of a man cut open, and eyes, so many eyes. 

He picked the statement up again, clearing his throat. The blood hadn’t obscured the text, not like he’d originally thought, the letters still clear against their macabre background. It had only been his feverish imagination. Even now, not everything had to be supernatural. Sometimes, a papercut was just that. The words spilled from his lips, the familiar ebb and flow of someone already long lost. There was nothing more to see here.

Statement ends.

But the tape record spun on. And again, his mind drifted. To the books. To a man who shared his name, who had cut, and found everything he didn’t want to see. Jon lifted his hand again, and pulled the plaster away. The cut was gone, leaving only a lingering itch just under his skin.

And a hunger he could not satisfy. 

*

The empty Archives seemed almost dreamlike, and so it was no surprise that he dreamed. Looking for answers, always looking, fingers sliding across knotted wood until they hit an indentation, and a compartment sprang open. He saw a dagger before him, blade already stained a rusty red. It almost seemed unreal until he grasped the handle, rough against his skin. Would infection even be a danger? But no, best to clean it. Best to be sure. 

The one good thing about Martin’s absence was that Jon was unlikely to be interrupted. It was late, and while Melanie and Basira were present as always, neither was likely to make a trip to the men’s toilets. And the other employees, the ones who were still simply employees, they had all gone home. Leaving Jon free to sate this morbid curiosity. 

He wrapped one hand around the cool porcelain, while the other clutched the knife from Melanie’s desk. The first aid kit perched on the back of the toilet, watching over the proceedings. A reminder, but not one he was likely to heed. 

“This is insane,” Jon murmured, but there was no conviction in it as he pressed the knife against the back of his arm. Perpendicular, in a spot that would bleed, would part flesh, but wouldn’t be fatal. If there even was a cut that would be fatal now. Six months without a beating heart, did he even need blood? His stomach lurched. He had to need blood, he’d bled when Melanie stabbed him, when he’d cut himself on the statement. The danger was real. It had to be. Elias had said…

“You can still bleed. You can still die.” The echo fell heavy from his lips. His will was still his own, mostly.

But the need to know was stronger.

Before he could think better of it, he pressed the knife down hard, and bit back a yelp of pain. A good sign, it had to be, that it still felt like pain. And the blood welled up, just like it should, running over his arm, into the sink, white blotted out by a lurid red. But it wasn’t the blood that concerned Jon, it was what might lie beneath, the twitching uncertainty. What existed below the semblance of flesh and sinew, what he could _not_ see. 

And so, he waited.

But there was nothing staring back at him. And the blood kept flowing, though the pain had somewhat abated. Endorphins, or something more sinister? It didn’t matter. He reached for the first aid kit, fumbled it open with stained hands, plunging his arm under the faucet, trying to wash it all away. To hide the evidence. But of what? It was hardly a crime. It was hardly worse than what he’d already done.

His hands were steady as he wrapped the cut in gauze, concealing any secrets it might hold. He tidied the sink as well, wiping away the last flecks of red against white. After all, it wouldn’t be wise to alarm anyone more than Lukas already had. And then he left, and tried not to think about what had just happened. What it meant. 

Nothing, there was nothing. And it was no comfort at all. 

*

The cut had already healed when he found it two days later. Another set of crinkled yellow pages, tucked into a dusty corner. And he knew, he _knew_ what they were before he even touched them with hands shaking from fear, from eagerness, from a sick sort of hope. He unfolded them, scanning the neat, familiar lines. Dr Jonathan Fanshawe. 

“So you didn’t get away.” He’d already known. But still he walked back to his desk, sat down, and began to read, to pour out the words of a man who hadn’t seen until too late that he’d already made his choice. 

Even when he finished, the tape recorder kept running. Waiting for what? For him to do something else? His eyes drifted to the top drawer, where he’d secreted the knife. Not that he’d intended to experiment further. The thought of the pain, the blood. It repelled him, like it always had. He didn’t need another scar, not when he already knew. 

But Jonathan Fanshawe had taken the job at Millbank Prison. His notes, the changes he’d seen, under that ever watchful eye. It had started slow, a trickle, but with each drop the crack grew wider. So again he drew the knife across an arm, though this time he didn’t look for eyes that weren’t there. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Instead he waited as the blood ran onto the floor, and watched to see what would happen. 

It was meditative, in the way searching for the statements was. Knowing that something would happen with a confidence he could no longer deny. Did it require blood? But that made no sense. The Hunt, the Slaughter, they wanted this sort of sacrifice. Unless it wasn’t a sacrifice at all, no more than his burnt hand had been, or the knife at his throat. No more than Jonathan Fanshawe had sacrificed, cutting and cutting to see—

The sound of shattering ceramic broke his focus, and he looked up to find Basira staring at him with wide, frightened eyes.

“Oh shit. Did Melanie—”

He scrambled for something to stop the bleeding, for the words to explain. “No, no, it’s not Melanie.” 

A cardigan pressed against the wound. Basira had taken hers off. Of course. A police officer, quick to react in a crisis. Jon shook his head, trying to clear it. 

“Did something attack? I didn’t hear anything.” 

Already the doubt was creeping into her voice. She didn’t trust him. He couldn’t blame her. He didn’t trust himself.

“I needed to…” 

As one, their eyes went to the knife, and Basira’s lips thinned.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. I know you have super healing or whatever, but this, this is—” 

“Mad?” Jon said, lips curling into a smile. Which was the opposite of helpful, further proof of what she feared.

“No.” If he were only mad, she wouldn’t be so afraid. “What are you trying to prove?” You know you’re not human. 

“I just—” He swallowed, and let Basira press his own hand against the cardigan while she rummaged around his desk. “I needed to know. Not that, but _more_.” 

“Do you even understand why you did it?” 

Why? To see. Not the blood, the parting of flesh. None of that mattered. But to see something greater than both. To crack the warped and bending wood of a faded yellow door, and let the torrent take him. 

“No, I mean, yes, I wanted—”

“To know. You said that. To know what? Whether you could get yourself killed?”

He winced, and wondered if she realized how much she still cared. How much easier it would be if she didn’t. She should’ve left, like Georgie. But instead she pulled up a chair, and began to bandage his arm. 

“You don’t have to do that. I know you want to help, but—”

Basira froze, fingers tightening around the gauze until it was stretched taut. “Thought you said you wouldn’t read my mind?”

“I— Right. Right, I did. I’m sorry, Basira.” For that, and so much more. He’d never been good with people, but that wasn’t the problem, was it? Basira had liked him. But there was something else between them now, crawling under his skin. And he just had to see, to know, and then—

“I wasn’t in any danger. It—there was a statement. The statement giver, he said it got faster, over time. The—the changes. This one is the easiest to test.” And there was something visceral in it. Not his mind, but his body, molded by something he could barely comprehend. 

“That, I believe.” She sighed. “Look, just, can you wait? Just a few days. Don’t do anything else. I need to arrange something.”

She finished wrapping his arm, tying it off neatly. Not that it mattered. The blood had already stopped when she’d come in. Jonathan, Dr Fanshawe, he’d been correct. 

“It’d be better if I’d just gone mad,” he said as she stood. 

She didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. It would.”

But it wasn’t madness he feared. 

*

Basira didn’t know about the knife. 

There was a panicked moment when he thought he’d be caught, as the prison guard looked up him up and down. They had to do a search, didn’t they? Just standard procedure. And then maybe they’d lock him up, too. Maybe that would be for the best. But the guard turned away, exchanging a nod with Basira, and gesturing for him to enter the room. All while she held back.

“Alone?” Except he was never alone now.

“You have fifteen minutes.” She didn’t want to do this, but what choice did she have? If anyone could help Jon, it was him. And if he made it worse, then maybe that’d be easier, in the end. 

“I’m not a monster,” Jon said, then winced. It was so easy to forget. And only getting easier.

Basira didn’t even flinch. “Prove it.” 

She didn’t think he could. I’m sorry, he didn’t say. She didn’t want to hear it. Just words, and it didn’t matter what you said, it mattered what you did. But words, ill-formed and unfitting, were all he had to give. Not when he didn’t know what ran beneath the surface. 

So he didn’t say anything as the door shut behind him, and he turned to meet his fate.

“Hello, Jon. Recovering well?”

Before he could think better of it, Jon pulled out the knife, enjoying the moment of alarm in Elias’s eyes. Not what he’d expected, not what he’d seen, and later Jon would wonder what that meant. But now he sliced across his palm and held it out, letting the blood drip onto Elias’s hands. His unbound hands. 

“Is that standard procedure? Letting you run around free?” Jon’s voice was hoarse. If he hadn’t seemed like a madman before, he must now. But it wouldn’t matter. The cameras only ever showed what Elias wanted them to see, and Jon knew they wouldn’t show this. 

“This is a special circumstance. One I will pay dearly for, so I hope you appreciate the sacrifice.” Elias caught his hand, standing and stepping closer. “Jon. You need to stop. You’re not ready.”

The blood continued to drip. Jon felt lightheaded, but it wasn’t the blood. It was the water, the cracks he’d carved into the door. 

“You didn’t want to see me.” He hadn’t known, but perhaps he’d _known_ , actions guided by something he barely understood.

“So you acted out? Certainly not a departure for you, but I don’t think that’s why you did this.” Elias brought Jon’s hand closer to his face, staring at the wound. “And Jon?” He met Jon’s eyes. His breath was hot on Jon’s palm. “I always see you.”

Jon gasped at the sharp pang of a tongue prodding the wound, an iron grip holding his arm still. Followed by gentler lips pressed against it, and strange tingling. Some part of him still thought this was sick, this was wrong. Wanted to pull back, to be anywhere but here. 

The rest of him couldn’t look away.

“I suppose this was inevitable,” Elias said as he lifted his head, his mouth stained red. 

The cut, Jon knew, was sealed. He didn’t need to look in order to see, not as Elias drew him closer still. Not while he could taste his own blood on Elias’s lips. It should be disgusting, but he didn’t pull away. Fingers massaged his temples, pushing deeper, and Jon couldn’t help the noise he made as he opened his mouth. Let Elias in. 

“You’re not ready yet,” Elias said, when he finally pulled away.

“You said I wouldn’t end up like that thing in Alexandria.” 

“I did.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not. There is a risk, but not if things go according to plan.” He pressed his lips against Jon’s forehead, leaving a stain he couldn’t see behind. 

“What’s happening to me?” Before, he would’ve been shouting it. Now his hands found Elias’s rumpled prison shirt, clinging to him as the flood swept him away. Wishing he had any other option. Knowing that he’d already made his choice. 

Elias ran a gentle hand through his hair, thumb lingering at the corner of his eye. “It’s the not knowing, isn’t it? You want to understand, need to understand. It’s why I chose you. Why I know that you’ll succeed. But right now, be patient. There will be scars enough, in time.”

“I’m not sure I can do that.” 

“That was always that danger. Just remember when it comes, let yourself go under.” Another kiss, brief this time, the taste of iron fading. 

“And then what happens?” Needing to know. Dreading the answer. Wanting so much more.

“Then, you’ll understand.”

It was enough for now. It _had_ to be enough for now. Jon wasn’t ready, even as the water seeped in, the knowledge he could no longer escape. Even as Elias held him there, the lone thing holding back the tide, and the sea itself. He had to leave. He couldn’t see Elias again, could not pry away at the cracks, trying to be more. 

And still, he hungered.


End file.
